


Selfish Prayer for Light

by Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Category: Wild Wild West (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-23
Updated: 2005-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-28 03:15:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/303118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James West has his hopes, his dreams... and then there's reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Selfish Prayer for Light

I hadn't meant to come back this early.

If I'd known that I'd have that hat staring me in the face when I came back, I'd still be in that bar draining whatever got put in front of me. There had been two pretty young ladies offering themselves to me, and their easy grace and charming smiles had lifted my spirits. But I'd had a niggling idea that I could make better use of the evening than by trying to take in enough alcohol to reach that pleasant mellow state that's becoming harder and harder to achieve with each passing year. My spirits were riding high on the way back as I thought of Artie on the Wanderer, probably cooking himself a fancy meal. We could play a game of chess, or checkers, or cards, or pool, and while the night away in conversation. There's at least one pretty thing in every town, and she's hardly ever hard to get. They all just run together after a while. Artie's one of a kind, and I don't think I'll ever get tired of him.

As I stare at that red-feathered hat, I can feel all my plans falling apart. I didn't see another horse in the stable car, but that hat sure as hell isn't one of Artie's. The small, satin gloves a few feet away aren't his, either. Or the soft, expensive shoes. Or -- I should turn around here and now. Should go back to my horse, back to the bar, and take those girls up on their offer. The air here's too heavy for me, polluted with a flowery perfume. There are a lot of things I know I should do. Walking farther into the parlor isn't one of them, but I've gotten into the habit of doing things I shouldn't, even knowing that the results usually hurt like hell.

There's a sharp gasp of breath in the other room, loud enough to be heard even in here. I've taken gunshots that hurt less than the feeling seizing up my chest now. He's murmuring something, in that baritone I know so well. I can't make out the words, but the tone is one I've heard him use before, and every time I've envied the woman who warranted it.

I don't just leave, or make some noise to give away my presence. I know too well why I don't, so well that I don't want to put it into words. There's just... a lure.

Damn it. I can at least be honest with myself, even if I'm a worthless coward with everyone else. I want to hear him like that, to drink in the velvet purr of his voice and imagine that he's making those sounds for me. I could earn them, given a chance that I know I'll never have.

All those rumors that fly about actors, the kind of lives they lead, the things they get up to-- it's all a pack of lies, and I wish to God it wasn't. Even during the War, when so many soldiers did things in the night that they'd never do by daylight, just to keep away the cold that seeps in when you're waiting for the shots in the dark or the high, clear bugle call that will mean you have to fight again, I never knew him to take a man to bed. I can only hope that he's never known when I have, and not just those years when war-weariness threatened to strip away what youth I had left.

I don't think it would repel him, but he does not need to know that I'm capable of having the thoughts that I have about him. If he does know, or guess, he's never said a word about it to me. Too polite, or, I hope against hope, oblivious. I'm usually careful. What I did to scare Lily Fortune off-- that's the kind of blatant stupidity I can usually keep myself from falling into. The fact that I had surprised myself with it had let me put on enough innocence to carry the day. He never pursued my motives; probably, he took it as me not wanting to lose my partner, which was not an inconsiderable part of the real reason. I wish that I coud tell him, almost as much as I pray he never asks.

He's a partner and more to me, even though he'll never return the more. And he's in his workshop with his lady of the evening, having his way with her. Jealousy's something women get up to; it's weakness in a man, and I feel terribly, terribly weak right now. That stunned pain in my chest keeps me from moving much, so I can do nothing but look about the room. He's left his coat tossed over the sofa; I wonder where he's left his boots. Maybe he still has them on. His lady's clothes litter the parlor, but only his jacket marks his presence on the train. That, and his moans.

They -- echo. Reverberate, filling the train. He'd always been good at making himself heard; he's said it comes of learning to fill a theater from the stage. And he's not being shy now. Why should he, when, as far as he knows, he and his lady are the only ones around?

I sit down -- fall down -- somehow find myself on the sofa, his jacket satin-soft and warm as blood in my hands. I clutch at it, and close my eyes. His arm isn't under the sleeve I hold, nor his chest beneath the lapels I stroke with my fingertips. There's was no steady muscle or beating heart for me to feel as I listen his voice mingle with the woman's softer cries.

It's disgustingly easy to pretend that I can't hear her blissful noises, easier than trying to guess if he's just fucking her, or being more creative for her pleasure.

I know that he's good at it, whatever he's doing. I might be the reigning whore of the Service, but Artie has never lacked for women, nor failed to excel at anything that required a deft touch. I really, truly should not think of his talented hands in that context, because it's bringing out more thoughts that I shouldn't indulge in, not right now. Many years ago, I rid myself of any notion that wanting a man like I want Artie is anything wrong, but I'm not fool enough to think that most other people agree with me. And while wanting a man is alright, wanting my partner, the man I live with and fight beside nearly every day of my life-- that's something beyond foolish.

Her moans are tapering off slowly; I don't know how long it's been. My fingers are still stroking over his satiny jacket, stealing the warmth that had been his for my own covetous hands. The sofa has no use for the lingering heat, and I want ... I need it. I can't get it from him, but I'll take whatever poor proxy I'm offered.

He's talking again, lower and more conversational -- now he's growling playfully. A board squeaks, near the door; I can feel my heart shooting up into my mouth. It stays there until I hear footsteps moving away. He's decided that whatever he thought of isn't important right now.

She has a pretty voice; the high gasp that breaks off her words is almost musical. She's like a flute for him to play, pulling forth an ecstatic melody with his lips. His mouth is every bit as skilled as his hands, though I've had to learn that merely by sight. I've felt his hands, brotherly and strong, but there's no way for me to justify wanting a touch of his lips. Only in dreams and waking fantasies can I have that. My imagination makes them slightly chapped, but supple and warm against my own.

They're in congress again, I'm sure of it. Fucking. The sounds they're both making are unmistakable and more powerful than my own good sense. I'm opening my trousers while my ears ring with reasons that I shouldn't.

I'm hard, and have the heat and giddiness of a fever. If I close my eyes ... No. It's nothing more than my own hand rubbing me, crude as a schoolboy thinking of a girl's slender ankles. But it's Artie's voice that's sounding through the train, rich and dark as the fabric between my fingers, and that's more powerful than any adolescent fantasy could ever be.

My own hand, a poor imitation of his touch, and the sound of his voice worshipping another body. I ease my cock out and stroke myself, fingers a loose circle around my flesh. It helps, draws some of the pain out of my lungs and brings a little more clarity, though no more wisdom, to my thoughts. With my eyes closed and his jacket in my hand, it's easy to pretend that he's watching me. That he knows, and wants...

Down that path lies a glimpse of Hell. He isn't, and he doesn't. Artie has never been shy or slow about getting what he wants. If he had ever wanted me, I would have been his years ago.

There's little that we keep secret from each other; little that we can keep secret, living in such close quarters. Certainly I've had to be circumspect those times I've craved a man instead of a woman. If he were anything like the depraved actor everyone expects him to be, I would know, and -- once more I can see the fires, hoping like that. Hope is a devourer, and twice as strong when it's impossible.

All the sense in the world doesn't keep me from prying into Artie's private life with idle strokes of my hand on my sex. Listening in is only a few steps removed from the act itself, and the lady isn't moaning any longer. Maybe her mouth's occupied by something better. The soft rumble of Artie's voice must be encouragement, directing her...

Harder. You're going fine. There, there, ah...

I could respond to his wishes better than she possibly can, and I'll never be able to prove it. How would I ask for a chance like that? Anyone else alive, I can proposition with half a thought. But Artie... I can't be so crude with him. And I know he'd refuse me, though he'd do it gently, and I know I'm not strong enough to bear what rejection would do to me. To us. I've had one good partner in the Service, one man whom I admire more than he'll ever know, because I'll never be able to put it all into words. I don't have his skill with them. There's no chance I'll ever again be partnered so fully if I destroy what he and I have. I can't sacrifice friendship for sex. I love him too much for that.

So I sate myself with my own hand, and drag his coat up to my face to breathe his scent in. It's familiar, clean, blocking out the flowered perfume that scalds my throat. I know that what I'm doing is wrong, that he doesn't want me here, listening in like some sex-starved voyeur. If I'm caught, there's no way I can explain this without lying, and I haven't fallen so far to do that. It thrills me, as danger always does, though the danger that usually comes my way lacks the edge of shame. It spices the comforting smell of the jacket and speeds my hand as the ache in my cock sharpens.

My closed eyes intensify every other sense, the way they say blind men can feel everything more intensely. The smell, my touch, the noises from the laboratory wash over me in heady waves of sensation. She's mewling, and I hate her for it before I remember to ignore her; Artie drowns her out with groans, and if her mouth closes it must be because of his kisses. My fingers move faster.

I can't tell myself that this is driven by anything but base desperation, shaped by some inner perversion. It doesn't matter -- I can indulge in this, now, and when it ends, I'll force myself back to pure and platonic thoughts around him. The cost of a misstep is too high. Artemus can read a man faster and more deeply than anyone I'd ever met; it's frightening what he might read in me, if I let my guard down.

When I'm done, I'll slip back to my horse and see if I can find those two lovelies again. If I can't, I'll find others. Someone soft and pliant, not broad and sturdy, someone who smells like flowers and womanhood, not trail-scent and the fancy aftershave Artie likes. There's a twinge of it on his jacket. I bury my face in it, and lose myself in a deep breath. Artie gives a peaking cry, and carries me with him. My last strokes are done with a hand so tightly clenched that it almost hurts, and I can't care. It's the best and worst climax of my life, and I hate it as much as I want more.

I'm cold despite the heat I've built in myself, but for just a few moments, lost in the smell and warmth of Artie with his distant cry in my ears, I can pretend that I'm not empty. I'm getting better at pretending. It must be Artie's influence. I can tell myself earnestly that I don't move because I don't want to clean myself just yet, not because I don't want to break the thin shell of fantasy that's dragging the moment out. The pathetic reality that I've sat here and driven my base desires with my partner's coat, while eavesdropping on something I have no right to hear, is kept at bay, just for a little while.

If there are more sounds in the other room, they're too quiet to penetrate the veil of my fantasy. I can guess, though, what it must be like in there. Soft, gulped breaths, whispered endearments-- Artie is quick with his tongue. My cock gives a little twitch at the thought of Artie's quick tongue, and I bash the images away. The fantasy breaks. I'm done. There's consolation to be had back in town, between a pair or two of shapely legs.

I keep a handkerchief in my jacket. Some days that feels like a terribly mundane thing to pair with the exotic weaponry I carry with it, but there are situations where a handkerchief works better than a gun. I don't reach it. Lamplight blinds me, but it doesn't block my ears.

"Jim?"


End file.
